Ragnarok (Twilight of the Gods Book 3)

by Christopher Nuttall

  He smiled at the thought. The Germans had never succeeded, if MI6 was to be believed, in duplicating Chobham armour. And it looked, very much, as though the Brits were right. The panzers, once the most feared tanks in human history, had taken hideous losses to weapons their American and British counterparts would shrug off. But then, it wasn't that much of a surprise. Britain and America had lavished billions of dollars on finding new ways to penetrate panzer armour, unaware - until it was too late - that they’d not only beaten the Germans, they'd moved so far ahead that the Germans didn't have a hope of catching up.

  A set of orderlies hurried past them, carrying stretchers as they headed west. The wounded, no matter their condition, were being moved all the way back to Berlin, where doctors and nurses were waiting to treat their wounds. Andrew had a nasty feeling that it wouldn't be long before the medical staff were completely overwhelmed, if they didn't start running out of supplies. The Reich hadn't asked the United States for medical supplies ...

  They probably don’t want to admit just how badly they’re suffering, Andrew thought. He couldn't blame the Germans for trying. If they looked weak, their American counterparts would try to take advantage of them. But it doesn't take a genius to know that they are taking a beating.

  He sucked in his breath as they walked into a village ... or something he assumed had been a village. There were piles of debris everywhere, but no intact buildings. Even the church had been destroyed. It didn't look as though the damage had happened recently - there were no fires - yet there was no way to know for sure. Even if the war ended tomorrow, even if Holliston shot himself in a bunker, the Third Reich would take years to recover. The United States would have plenty of time to solidify its position.

  Hitler wouldn't have gone down so easily, Andrew thought. It was easy to imagine the first Fuhrer leading a final defence of Berlin, reverting to the infantryman he once was as British, French and American troops broke into the city. Hollywood had definitely thought so - there were plenty of movies where the Reich was defeated, either during the war or shortly afterwards. But instead he went mad and died.

  He wrinkled his nose as he scented the burial pit. Dozens of bodies had been unceremoniously dumped in the hole, after they had been stripped naked. Their hands were tied behind their backs ... he swore, quietly, as he saw the blue tattoos on their arms. SS men, not Heer or civilians. They’d been killed by their own side.

  “Deserters,” Oberleutnant Sebastian Riemer said.

  Andrew glanced at him. He looked sick.

  “How do you know?”

  “They’ve been stripping bodies ever since the offensive failed,” Riemer told him. “We’ve stumbled across plenty of naked bodies. But this ... they’ve all been shot in the back of the head.”

  Andrew nodded, slowly. He had no inclination to get any closer - the smell was thoroughly unpleasant, even though it was cold enough to keep the bodies from decomposing rapidly - but Riemer was right. The dead men - the murdered men - hadn't been killed in battle, they’d been executed. And the only reason the SS would execute its own men was for desertion.

  “Crap,” he said, finally.

  He wondered, as Riemer hurried after his commander, just what it meant. The SS had a reputation for toughness - was that, like so much else, breaking down under the pressures of civil war? It couldn't be easy to lay waste to Germany, not when it was Germans who would suffer. And then, being defeated had to be a shock too. The SS had lost small-unit engagements in the past, but it had never been defeated in open battle. Its reputation for invincibility had seemed deserved.

  But the Reich never had a civil war before, he reminded himself. How badly did we suffer during the War Between the States?

  “Keep funnelling men towards Warsaw,” Gath was saying, as they caught up with him. He was barking orders to his staff, one by one. “Keep the pressure on. I don’t want to give them a chance to regroup.”

  He smiled, rather thinly, at Andrew. “Finding it a little cold, American?”

  “You’ve never experienced winter in Alaska,” Andrew said, choosing to ignore the fact that he’d never set foot in Alaska either. He’d never gone any further north than Boston. “I’m warm enough, for the moment.”

  “Good,” Gath said. He turned back to peer eastwards. “Let’s see how hot we can make it for them, shall we?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Front Lines, Germany Prime

  3 November 1985

  “They’re turning our flank, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” Sturmbannfuehrer Friedemann Weineck reported. “Their lead elements are already pressing against our defensive lines.”

  “Order the rearguard to commence falling back, as planned,” Obergruppenfuehrer Felix Kortig said. “And remind them that they are to refrain from heroics.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” Weineck said.

  Felix nodded impatiently as Weineck scurried off to do his will, then studied the map carefully. The enemy were showing more determination than he’d expected from a bunch of rebels, but they had to know that time was short. It was already growing colder. It wouldn't be long before the front lines literally froze. The rebels had to make their move now or wait for spring.

  And the trap has been set, he thought. They have no idea what’s coming their way.

  He smiled, coldly. The rebels were clearly aiming to isolate Warsaw rather than storm the city - hopefully trapping thousands of stormtroopers within the city defences - their forces trying hard to cut the links between the front lines and Germany East. He’d expected as much, which was why most of his combat-ready formations were withdrawing through the back door before it was slammed shut. And they would push forward, harder, when they realised their enemy was escaping. The retreating units would lead them straight into the trap.

  And if they do try to storm Warsaw, he added silently, they’ll be chewed up and spat out by the defences.

  ***

  Herman felt old as he advanced forward, sweat trickling down his back even though the weather was bitterly cold. The town in front of him was surprisingly undamaged - the Waffen-SS hadn't bothered to destroy it when they’d retreated - but that didn't mean it wasn't dangerous. His unit had been detailed to sweep it as the panzers roared past, seeking out the enemy armour before it escaped; he couldn't help feeling, as his gaze swept the streets looking for trouble, that it was a honour he would gladly have foregone.

  You wanted to go back to the military, he told himself, sternly. And here you are, old man.

  He glanced back at his squad, using hand signals to issue orders. If the SS had left a stay-behind unit in the town, they’d reveal themselves as soon as the soldiers began searching the buildings. They wouldn't be able to hide so they could emerge afterwards and snipe at convoys moving east, not when the town was being searched thoroughly. The Heer had plenty of experience in making sure a town was harmless before they cleared the roads for military convoys.

  Bracing himself, he ran towards the nearest house. There was no sign of an enemy presence; no gunshots, no explosions ... nothing to suggest the town was inhabited. A cold chill ran down his spine as two of his men joined him, one kicking down the door while the other threw a HE grenade into the house. The walls shook as the grenade detonated, but held; Herman ran forward, weapon raised, and into the house. It had been devastated - a table and a number of chairs had been reduced to splinters - but it appeared to be deserted. There was no sign of any bodies.

  They swept the house quickly, weapons at the ready. There was nothing, save for a few hints that the inhabitants had had time to pack before they left. Herman hoped that they were safe - the Waffen-SS had probably shipped them to a settlement further east, rather than a detention camp - but there was no way to know for sure. If they came back, they would have to buy more clothes, he noted. It was easy to see that the house had been stripped of everything usable.

  They’re probably running short of winter clothes, Herman thought. It was odd - the SS had plenty of e
xperience in cold weather - but it was quite possible that the SS logistics network had broken down. They might not have been able to get winter clothes to the men before it started to bite. They’ve taken everything they need to stay alive.

  Pushing the thought aside, he hurried back downstairs and ordered the next section into the town. They’d leapfrog their way through the streets, searching each and every building before finally declaring the town cleared. He had no doubt that someone would be ordered to garrison the town, just to make sure the enemy couldn't turn it into a base; he hoped, as the aches and pains grew worse, that his squad would get the job. They weren't young men any longer ...

  An explosion blasted out, close enough to shake the house. Herman hit the ground automatically, expecting to hear bullets cracking through the air at any second. But there was nothing, save for the sound of distant shellfire. He cursed under his breath as he crawled forward, grimly aware that the enemy might be waiting for him to show himself before they opened fire. Chances were the SS needed to conserve ammunition as much as the Heer ... they wouldn't want to waste their bullets on walls. But he had no choice.

  He peered out of the door and swore under his breath. Someone had packed an IED into the next house, rigging it so the device would be triggered when someone kicked open the wooden door. Two of his men were dead; a third lay on the ground, his body so badly wounded that Herman knew there was no point in calling for a medic. It was a dark miracle he’d even survived long enough for Herman to see him. He gritted his teeth, then crawled towards the dying man. But he expired before Herman reached him.

  I’m sorry, Herman thought. He hadn't known the three men very well, but they had been under his command. And now they were dead, old men fighting a young man’s war. I wish ...

  He dismissed the thought, angrily, as he called the next squad forward. The town might be deserted, but it was still dangerous. He had no doubt that the destroyed house wouldn't be the only one to be rigged, which meant the buildings would either have to be destroyed or cleared one by one. And none of his men were trained in removing IEDs.

  “Call it in,” he grunted, as the squad reassembled. “Tell them we’re waiting for ...”

  He hit the ground, again, as a splatter of bullets passed over his head. Rolling over, he saw a pair of enemy soldiers briefly visible within the church tower before they ducked back out of sight. There had been an enemy presence in the village after all! He swore under his breath as he directed his men forward, considering their options. Normally, he would have called in artillery support - or an airstrike - but he had a feeling that the gunners were occupied elsewhere. And using the other buildings for cover was probably out of the question. There was no way to know how many of them had been rigged to blow.

  Crap, he thought, grimly. We need to move.

  He barked out a string of orders, then led the first squad forward while the second opened fire on the tower. Herman doubted they would hit anything worth the effort - none of his men were particularly good shots, even the ex-policemen - but they would force the enemy to keep their heads down. He braced himself as he slipped up to a house, half-expecting it to explode, then moved forward. Two enemy soldiers, clearly visible by the church entrance, lifted their rifles as they approached. Herman opened fire, spraying them both with bullets, then ducked back as another bullet cracked against the wall, missing him by bare millimetres.

  We’re not going to get into the church, he told himself, as he unhooked a pair of grenades from his belt. They’ll have everything sealed.

  He tossed the first grenade through the nearest window, then threw the second as soon as the first exploded. A third explosion shook the ground a second later, detonating with such force that the entire building began to collapse. Herman had a brief vision of a man falling to the ground before he vanished into the rubble. He stayed back as the church fell to pieces, then peered forward carefully. The threat seemed to have vanished.

  “Got a message from HQ,” the radioman said, as Herman watched the debris settle. “They want us to leave the rest of the town alone, but hold position.”

  Herman allowed himself a moment of relief. HQ would probably send someone to check the town for unpleasant surprises, eventually. The owners, whoever they were, might just be able to get back to their homes, even though they had been looted. But then, who cared about the looting as long as the buildings themselves were intact?

  They’re not all intact, he reminded himself, darkly. And the fighting may sweep back over them at any moment.

  He motioned for his men to follow him on a brief patrol of the village, then peered into the distance. Smoke was rising from the direction of Warsaw, reminding him that there was a major offensive underway. He could hear everything from explosions to gunshots, echoing in the air; brief flashes of light flickered and flared before vanishing into nothingness. He’d seen war before, during his service, but this was different. Whoever won the battle, whoever won the war ... the Reich itself would lose.

  This is Ragnarok, he thought numbly, as a formation of aircraft roared overhead. The twilight of the gods.

  ***

  “The advance elements are encountering more and more booby traps,” the aide reported, grimly. “They’re slowing down.”

  Field Marshal Gunter Voss gritted his teeth in frustration, although he wasn't too surprised at the news. Reports from prowling aircraft had made it clear that the Waffen-SS was retreating, trying to get as much of its mobile forces out of the caldron as it could before it was too late. Gunter couldn't blame them, either. It was what he would have done, in their place. Allowing entire divisions of panzers to be pocketed and destroyed would shorten the war.

  They learned from us, he thought, cursing the irony. The Provisional Government had used delaying tactics to slow the SS juggernaut during its advance on Berlin - and now the SS was using the same tactics to slow his armoured thrusts. And they may get away with it too.

  He chewed his cigar as the next set of updates flowed into the HQ. Warsaw itself was important, but he wanted - he needed - to crush the SS’s mobile forces. He had no doubt he could starve Warsaw out, if nothing else, but Warsaw was irrelevant as long as the enemy panzer divisions remained largely intact. And time was not on his side. Putting the offensive together at such speed had been hard enough, but he knew he couldn't sustain the advance indefinitely.

  And if we don’t destroy their mobile forces, we will have to go into winter quarters and prepare for a spring offensive, he reminded himself. And even if we win, we will lose.

  “Order the panzers to avoid towns and other likely ambush sites,” he said, after a long moment. “And move up additional infantry to sweep the region.”

  “Jawohl.”

  Gunter gritted his teeth. “And tell the panzer commanders to keep pushing forward,” he added. “They are to stop for nothing.”

  “Jawohl,” his aide said.

  It was a race now, Gunter saw. His forces had to race to encircle and pocket the SS, while the SS needed to break out of the trap before it was too late. And he had a nasty feeling he might just lose. He’d expected the SS to stand and fight, not start retreating. They’d practically started falling back as soon as the offensive began, sacrificing their best chance to savage his forces.

  But they are not fools, Gunter reminded himself, sternly. Karl Holliston had no formal military experience, but whoever was in tactical command on the other side would be a very experienced SS officer. They might have decided to give up Warsaw while withdrawing deeper into Germany East.

  He shook his head. “Order the third-line units to begin their advance,” he added. “Tell them to thrust forward as hard as they can.”

  “Jawohl.”

  Gunter felt his scowl deepen. The SS were already struggling to delay his armoured pincers; now, they’d have a third armoured force advancing against their fortified positions. It would put immense pressure on their lines, but the SS were renowned for their discipline. They might break - or t
hey might not. Either way ...

  The battle isn't over, he told himself, firmly. And they haven’t escaped yet.

  ***

  “Get up,” Kuhn snapped. “They’re coming!”

  Hennecke scrambled out of the trench and joined the other soldiers as they started to move eastwards, once again. A handful of stormtroopers took up position in the trench, ready to bleed the enemy - again - before joining the retreat. Hennecke was surprised he and the other penal soldiers hadn't been issued more weapons, but there were apparently shortages everywhere. The pressure of the offensive was steadily breaking through the lines.

  He forgot dignity - and training - as he heard shooting breaking out behind him, lowering his head and running for his life. Other soldiers fled too, trying desperately to get away from the armoured spearheads before it was too late. Hennecke had heard stories - gruesome stories - of panzers crushing unarmed men beneath their treads, something the Einsatzgruppen had done in Germany East to force insurgents to talk. Why wouldn’t the rebels do the same? Everyone knew they hated the SS.